


Those Sleepless Nights

by teapig



Series: The Terror one-shots [3]
Category: The Terror (2018 TV series)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-05-01 01:45:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14509773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teapig/pseuds/teapig
Summary: It’s not rare, after a journey such as theirs, to find them held awake night after night by the ghosts of their pasts, whispering that fatal question of "What if?" in a million different voices.





	Those Sleepless Nights

**Author's Note:**

> This is barely even long enough to call a drabble - it began when a Terror buddy couldn't sleep the other night, finished now that I'm in the same boat.

It’s not rare, after a journey such as theirs, to find them held awake night after night by the ghosts of their pasts, whispering that fatal question of _what if?_ in a million different guises.   
  
For Francis, the questions came thick and fast – feasting on a lifetime of intensive self-doubt, glass ceilings, and disappointments, he had always been ruled by the thought of how, while life might have been worse, it could also have been so much better. Lying silent in the dark left him staring at the man who had held things together when he could not – the _what if_ that had finally paid off. Eventually, James would stir, an arm coming to wrap around his husband and pull him closer. Gently tugging him to lay his head on his chest, James would pull stories out of the dark night, out of the past and back into their memories. Running his hands across his warm body, nails brushing over his shoulder blades, and fingers drifting through his hair, James’ voice lulled Francis back from the edge with his words. Some were familiar tales from his past, the usual hyperbolic flourishes replaced now with an air of warm honesty, and _If only I could show you’s_. Other times, it would be conjured up dreams that he has for their future together; forging a life, a home, a family of their very own making. _Oh, the places we can go, Francis, the things we can see… and even better, we’ll do it all together._   
  
The newly-certified Dr Goodsir remained haunted by those men he hadn’t been able to save. Whether they had been killed by mystery, by mistaken identity, or by the slow poisoning he had been utterly unable to remedy, he would wake up with the stench of opened bodies on his mind, the stickiness of their blood seeming to coat their hands, and the anguished screaming and grief of their families ringing in his ears. Collins, being an absolute giant of a man, would surround Goodsir’s shaking form with his body and with his love. He knew that it would be futile to try and shake him out of his delusions – Harry had spent long enough being told that he was raising unnecessary alarms, despite the opposite being clearly visible. Thus, he holds him close instead, grounding him with his warmth and love until he came back into himself, blinking owlishly up at Henry, his eyes damp with tears. Some nights, he’d sing him to sleep with the lilting folk tunes that he knows more by instinct than memory, breath gusting gently across his hair. Otherwise, he’d often lull him with murmured folk stories, the kind that seemed to continue and evolve in their meanings from age to age. _Way back before time truly began, the birds of the world decided that it was time to choose a king, who could bring them peace and hope…_   
  
Peglar wishes that he was as eloquent as his partner - that he could read to Bridgens as softly, expressively, and tenderly as he would do for him; that his accent was as warm, as reassuring; that he could ease the mental burden caused by a lifetime of hiding. But things weren't that simple - and so instead, he'd trace his fingers along his wrists, brushing over his knuckles, lingering on his palms. Finally, they could revel in the delicate, simple contact that they had almost grown to fear in the past, caressing lightly each detail of his tattoo. John wasn't keen on being held at night - having grown so used to the risk of being caught, to the risk of their both losing their lives for love, it set a deep fear loose in his heart all night long. Thus, Henry would take his hands in his, holding them fast whilst pressing their foreheads together. After all this time, the words barely needed speaking as the familiar actions spoke above them; but when John's hopelessly tired eyes opened once again, Harry looked deeply into them. _You're safe,_ they said, _I've got you, and I love you, and I’ll never, ever let you go again._


End file.
